His sixteenth birthday
by OryssaV
Summary: Neville wished he could forget his sixteenth birthday, things went so horrible that day. Now, he is in St. Mungo reliving what happened as he writes it all down on paper. Warning(s) A lot of abuse, violence, repetitive rape and Voldemort's party.


**title**: July 31st  
**author**: OryssaV  
**rating**: R  
**pairings**: NL, SS  
**summary**: Voldemort picked another victim... Longbottoms.  
**warning(s):** rape, excessive violence, torture  
**disclaimer**: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**author's notes**: this is an odd one.

Neville sat on his hospital bed motionlessly, taking slight small breaths with his lung. His legs were crossed, pale hands hanging loosely by his side, touching the linen of the covers.

But he didn't feel it.

He would never again feel with his hands. The skin on them was dry and perched because no blood was flowing through. Healers cast a preserving spell on them even though they were practically dead. He could no longer use them for anything.

The bed was white, with covers smoothed out of any possible wrinkles. Neville blended so nicely with the duvet, all pale and translucent. Most of his cuts and bruises were healed but some wounds were too deep or too advanced to be healed properly. Scars and marks now marred Neville's body... but he didn't look much at it these days. Neville found he didn't mind.

He didn't mind anything lately.

Neville usually sat still for hours letting his body rest and heal. But mostly he was lost in his mind, trying to sort everything out in any order, trying to decide between remembering and forgetting for the days that would come. His eyes would be fixed on the blue wall for hours, not seeing it. People would come and go, check on him, but he rarely paid them attention. The healers did everything they could. There wasn't much to do anymore. The largest injury was in Neville's mind now and no one knew how to heal him there.

Sometimes he had one of the professors visit but they didn't stay for long.

Only headmaster, professor Snape and psychiatrist visited regularly. They had the nerve to endure the silence because Neville spoke only if the question had to be answered.

But today his mind was a little more than troubled.

The door squeaked as Snape entered. Neville hadn't even moved a bit, sitting there back slouched and eyes gazing at the blue wall. There was a sheet of paper laying in front of him. Snape limped to the side of the bed and sat on the chair beside it heavily. After he made himself comfortable he sat there silently thinking, just like Neville did. No word passed between them. It was their routine since Neville woke up four months ago. He was in coma for the six previous ones, hanging to life only through determination of healers and Snape who fed him any potion Snape thought would help.

Yet, no one, not even best potion master was able to bring his hands to life.

Snape flickered his wand and tragic sounds of violin weeping surrounded them softly. They sat like that until it was time for Snape to go.

"I'll go now. Potter, Granger, both Weasleys, Lovegood, Thomas…" Snape's tone softened, "All of your friends wish you well and would like to visit you whenever you'll allow it. Get better Neville. There are people who miss you."

Neville seemed not to hear Snape talking. He kept looking at the wall. After a minute Snape turned around and walked away limping slightly.

Right when he reached for the door knob, Neville spoke up in a raspy voice not used to talking. "Take this and do with it whatever you think should be done," he said pointing to the paper with his chin.

Severus made it to the bed, skimmed first few lines with his eyes. He looked up and stared at Neville in disbelief.

"How?" He asked softly after a while.

"I used a spell to move the quill," Neville answered.

Snape only nodded and turned around.

Neville sat there quietly listening to music he will be unable to play ever again.

-:-

It was a sunny day with no dizzying fog or clouds. It was the last day on of July and it held some sentiment over the world. This also was the day Neville Longbottom was celebrating his sixteenth birthday, in a quiet way, without any parties or presents. Neville was used to the fact that people didn't remember, didn't know or didn't' care about his birthday.

His grandmother opened the door slightly and leaned on the coarse brown wood watching her only grandson with ache in her heart. Her eyes gazed at the music sheets scattered all over the carpet. She remembered that Frank used to play his violin just as much as Neville had. It was painful to see so much of her son and his wife in their child. She would have never allowed Neville to play, if it weren't for the fact that her grandson had a natural talent. She couldn't have denied it to him. People thought she was harsh, and it probably was true, but she cared about Neville.

Neville never received a birthday card from a friend or even a simple letter. She didn't know if it was because he told no one, or because no one cared. He was always quiet, trying to be good and not a burden.

She tapped on the door, quietly as to not startle him. He looked up and smiled sheepishly. She treasured each one of them, each precious to her old heart.

Together they went to the kitchen downstairs. She took out the surprise cake from the fridge. It was strawberry cake, his favorite. Neville's eyes became huge like bludgers; she hated baking but at times like these she only smiled and knew it was worth it. It really was.

The cake itself was a masterpiece. They ate it very slowly, chewing on each tiny bite for the last trace of the juice. The sweetness slowly coated their tongues and slipped wetly to their stomach. Not knowing why, Neville wanted this moment to last.

Everything seemed so ultimate, so different. Even his grandma was different that day, more real, more tangible.

The rest of the day he spent in his room playing his beloved violin. He pulled on the strings with slow practiced movements, adjusting to each shift and drag. Slowly, to the music he only had heard, he played to the moon and to the friends he never had. Why? He knew not why. Few recognized how fond he was of his instrument; fewer acknowledged that he actually could do something other than be a clumsy idiot. That he was talented.

He had changed. It came gradually; he never noticed until one day, he woke up and he was just different. He was no longer this chubby and timid child; if anyone would have bothered to look deeper, they would have found a gorgeous young man. A man this boy could be.

Evening arrived like a cloud of butterflies settling on blossoming flowers for a rest. Night swept through the neighborhood, stars glistered on the sky and an anonymous cat crooned a sad song somewhere under the gutter-pipe. Neville was lying on his bed reading textbooks for the up coming new school year. His room was upstairs so there was no chance that could have heard anything that happened downstairs, not the breaking of the glass, nor the creak of the rusted front door. Nothing had warned him.

They came. Dressed in black robes and wearing black hoods that covered their faces, they entered the house.

Neville was just about to turn a page as he licked his fingers and moved to the corner of the sheet. He was so absorbed in his book that the bang, with which the door to his room opened, made him jump up and fall to the floor with a pained thud. He stood up quickly.

His eyes widened and he could feel as his heart accelerated distinctly. He could hear the sound of blood rushing though his body and it was deafening. His mind screamed in vain to run, to hide, to find grandma and protect her and yet, he couldn't move, couldn't reach for his wand, couldn't even breathe properly.

His mouth moved but though no sound came, he heard, "Death Eaters…" whispered anxiously in his mind, hoping beyond everything that this was a dream.

The Death Eater nearest him advanced towards him and Neville stumbled backwards until he felt solid wall with his back. It was a trap. One of them, he couldn't tell the difference, raised a wand and pointed it at him. There was no time for anything. His throat suddenly dried and in a rush of his thoughts, he could pick up only few sensible pieces: 'this is the end, oh my god, no!' and even in his own head it sounded small. Tears prickled his eyes, so he closed them. Frantic memories flushed his mind; the visits in hospital, his mom and dad, first day in school, herbology, Gryffindor Tower; grandma. He didn't want to die, no matter how lonely, it was still his life.

He waited for the _Avada Kedavra_ to come… But it never came; instead, he heard a spell being chanted. He didn't recognize it.

The same man muttered some other spell, and this one he recognized almost immediately as pain seized him. _Crucio._

He fell to the floor heaving under the waves of pain as his muscles contracted and cramped up. Every muscle in his body screamed. He just writhed on the floor like a doll, manipulated. He couldn't scream. His heart reaped with unnamed pleas, with unvoiced yells, and no sound escaped his lips. Only short gasps of air entered his constricted lungs. Neville flounced as if stricken by a fever, red on a face, sweated and burning up. He rolled around on the floor, pulling on his clothes and ripping them open; the carpet left burning marks on his hands and back. But in the midst of it all, he felt himself being dragged. No one took the spell off; they didn't pick him up, just pulled him down the stairs. He felt each step imprint its sharp edge on his ribs. They pulled him by his hair and he could only retaliate by clenching his hands into fists, nails digging into his palms and piercing the skin. An empty echo followed this whole defilade.

Crucio wore off and Neville choked on his spit as he could finally breathe. He was laying face on the floor panting, with small sharp intakes of breath. Chilly tiles were cool as his cheek touched them. A dull throbbing of his muscles kept him conscious and yet, he felt so exhausted…

Neville felt his helplessness, dismay. It terrified him to the core. Panic suffocating him from all sides, grasping his body, his heart pounded at an insane pace, he heard each beat fast, and hard. He clutched at it.

After a while Neville tried to stand up by pulling himself to his knees, but one of them kicked him in the ribs and he dropped on the floor winded. His hands grabbed his stomach, and he curled into fetal position to protect himself from another blows. He forgot how long he was on the floor wheezing, until he felt shadows moving around him. They brought his grandma into the living room. She was wearing her pink sleep robe and he saw her hair wet, most likely she had been in the shower when they accosted her.

They backhanded her.

Neville tried to get up but, the same Death Eater that had kicked him in the ribs, clutched him by his neck and pushed him forcefully face down. Neville felt his nose crack for the second time in his life. Somebody had screamed. He tried to raise his head up, but he was pushed down again, now into the slippery pile of blood that Neville thought vaguely was his own. Neville tried to shake off the hands but the man pushed harder. And just as suddenly the man let him go. Neville jumped up only to be tripped by they guy and to fall down again. As he was falling he hit his forehead on the corner of the table and his entire head filled with pain. A warm trickle of blood slid down the side of his face and got into his left eye. He was so dizzy.

They bound his grandma with magical chains. She tried to pull on them. Neville picked himself off the floor leaning heavily on the table and once again tried to get to his grandma. But he was so weak.

Another Death Eater created a magical glass-like shield around them. Neville knew the spell. He saw Harry do it once, although, not intentionally. He once again was trapped, without his wand. He started touching the invisible barrier, hoping it would disappear suddenly. His lips moved violently, and the words failed to reach anybody's ears with the spell still in tact.

They stripped her of her clothes. A blush appeared on her cheeks; she tried to cover herself up somehow, backing into the shade and crossing her legs. She moved violently like an animal caught in snares, and they just stared at her nakedness. One punched her and her head rolled back; her eyes blinking slowly as she almost fainted.

Neville punched the barrier. His knuckles rubbed off and the skin broke and peeled. It looked horrid with the smears hanging in the air held only by magic.

It scared him.

He saw his grandma scream as one by one they violated her. At some point she fainted, and he saw her bleed. He saw the blood cripple to the floor and he cried.

There were eyes gazing at him from the shadows. Cold eyes, empty eyes, calculating; and he could do nothing to stop this horror from happening. He felt them on himself… it was so sickening. The lump moved up and settled in his throat. And he breathed in bitter shouts, bitter moans and dust. Everything grayed. He fell onto the wall and slid down onto his knees in a numb lost look. Tears clouded his vision but he saw everything.

At some point Neville threw up. The Death Eater laughed. Cramps wrenched Neville's abdomen as his stomach tried to expel everything but there was nothing more to throw up.

Neville put his forehead to the barrier, unable to look at his grandma. Suddenly the magical wall disappeared, and Neville fell forward onto his face with a thud. He layed there. They grabbed at his hands and dragged him down the floor. He couldn't muster any energy, not even to care, he felt so weak, so sick. They grabbed him by his clothes and made him stand although Neville tried to protest meekly. In answer he received a punch to the spent stomach and another cramp hit him as he puked once again.

Neville nearly blacked out from such intense pain that he almost missed when they dragged him to his feet in front of his grandma. He bit and spit and scuffled; he tried so desperately to pull away.

He tried to tell her with his eyes that he was sorry, so sorry. She only smiled and uttered 'Love you.' very quietly for him only to hear. Then she kissed him on the forehead and he saw her eyes close, her muscles to relax. She died. He saw her life leaving her; and though she had smile on her face, her eyes were closed.

Neville went from stampede to stupor. He saw them take her remains a throw it outside to the garden. All eyes turned to Neville who was swooning where he was chained naked. He was just hanging there held by his wrists, fingers twitching occasionally with the last pangs of the pain he endured. They constricted into fists as the little blood reached them. Death Eaters that stood in the shadows watching everything this whole time advanced. They glided toward him extending their hands, they touched him. Everywhere. Neville felt anger building on him. Fury as such he never experienced. He felt like a madman; powered by his fear, by his scare; he didn't know what was real and what was gone. So disgusted. And as soon as it came, it all was gone. Neville closed his eyes hoping he could at least lose consciousness as he felt thousands of slimy fingers attach to his nipples, to his lower regions. Some few went into his mouth and he gagged and almost threw up, again despite the fact there was nothing to heave anymore. He knew what would happen. He had no illusions. They were left upstairs, sleeping under his blanket; innocent and clean and so unlike him. He knew it was coming. Felt it rub across his thighs and move upwards and yet, he didn't imagine such pain. He threw his head back and clenched his teeth as his vision fogged up and blackened. One after another they took him, pierced his body, and ripped him open, penetrating deeper.

He cried all the while. What was he supposed to do? He couldn't scream, he was too weak to fight. It was already done. As one finished next one took his place. After a while Neville didn't feel anything, not the pain, none of the touches. He just didn't feel, his mind was already overloaded.

None of the Death Eaters took their hoods off. He knew his own blood was leaking to the floor, he knew it was weaving its way down his skin. He knew how it looked; he knew how it dribbled down his grandmother's legs. This picture would always hunt him. Always.

He felt their heavy breathing on his chest and he only swayed with the force of each thrust. The chains gripped him tightly, and he couldn't move his fingers. He couldn't articulate a single thought. It lasted for so long he knew no one listened, no one ever had. His prayers and pleas were futile. His tears had even dried up, his eyes unable to produce more.

He felt pair of eyes watching him. He forced his head up to meet them.

Voldemort.

He looked at him straight into those red angry monstrous eyes unmoved, disinterested. He had neither the strength nor the will to move, to struggle. There was nothing they could do to make it worse

And they were done. He felt blood clog and dry on him. They were all done. They left him hanging there on the chains, his wrists burned and he himself felt so fragile, so pathetic. He felt so filthy, so used and yet strangely he just didn't care. They could have done anything. They drew their wands and pointed it at him. He didn't even raise his eyes already dying inside. He was slapped punched some more, so that his body was covered in bruises and cuts. But he didn't feel it. They had knives cut him, stab him in his arms. They left them deep in the muscles, damaging it. Neville stared it because it was right in front of his empty eyes. And he noted he wouldn't be able to play. And strangely that didn't ring a bell. He bled; his blood staining his skin red, it covered his nakedness. Neville could only hang there, feeling his ribs crack, making his breathing more ragged that it was, damaging his lungs. Something inside of him broke with nauseating crack. The pain never ceased. Neville couldn't hold on anymore. But he had to until they left. He was on an edge, not conscious… everything appeared slurred to him. There was graying in his vision slowly covering his eyesight and promising him sleep.

"Enough!"

He felt a cold presence approaching him. Cold steel reached for his chin and he tried to focus on those eyes. A cynical smile crossed that deathly white features and Neville felt indifference ran down his spine. He heard words carried to him by wind quietly.

"You are his friend. Harry's." A soft chuckle. "It was a pleasure to meet you. Farewell."

He turned around and they all left behind him, none looking back. Neville was lulled by the swinging of the chains that were his only support. The Death Eaters left all doors and windows opened, so the cold chill could enter and attempt to finish what was started so brutally that night. The clock struck midnight.

And thus Neville welcomed his sixteenth birthday, hanging from the ceiling on his hands, blood stained, broken.

-:-

Neville shifted and threw his legs over the covers to the floor. He waited until they woke up. Then he walked slowly to the window and looked out at the street. He saw muggles rushing past by and few very recognizable wizards going inside. He just looked at everything breathing in much synchronized pattern. His hands were hanging limply by his sides. Neville got used to them being this way. He still was weak, and occasionally had his panic attacks and nightmares. He always went to the window when the memories proved to be too much to sit still.

Right then, he had so many thoughts to sort through. He wrote about what happened, he finally said something about it. After nearly ten months they were finally to know what happened on his birthday, if what he looked like when they found him wasn't enough. But it was so hard to remember what happened and yet, to forget it was even harder. Somehow writing about it, made it much more realistic, tangible really. For the first time Neville cried since the accident nearly year ago. It took him hours to write about it, and he only managed to write it in third person, if only to make the pain lessen.

Now, he didn't know how he felt about it. Didn't know if he did the right thing.

Whispering lonely to the glass he was standing behind, he breathed to no one in particular.

"What happens now?"

The End.

By: oV


End file.
